Chapter 23 MARCEL
Chapter 23
M ARCEL
I’m glad you’re here.
Last night’s confession tormented him as he jogged along the path at the edge of the swamp. He paused to take a drink of water and then emptied the rest of the bottle over his head; it was hot, despite the early hour. Why the hell had he said that? Quite the plot failure. It wasn’t like him. His father had warned him repeatedly: “Stay on top of your feelings. The day your feelings get on top of you, you’re dead.” He felt a suffocating sensation in his chest. This tended to happen whenever the old man entered his thoughts. He took a deep breath, bent double, and channeled the air out slowly. The smell of mud licked his face. The reeds shone thick and green in the dappled light; the water lilies were in flower and their leaves were dotted with drops of dew; the sun was poking out above the tree line. New Orleans had a contradictory effect on him: the farther he was from the city, the more he needed it, and the closer he was, the more he felt adrift.
Come to think of it, Siobhan was having a similar effect on him.
His visits weren’t becoming less frequent for no reason. Part of it was that he struggled to cope with the sensation of leafy dirt that he couldn’t scrub off whenever he was there—perhaps it was true that Manhattan had made him bourgeois, like Charmaine always taunted him. And part of it was that he couldn’t stand being in the same room as his father. But something was different this time: a lightness in his mood that he had initially attributed to the old man’s absence and which he saw reflected not just in his sister’s good spirits but also in the tranquil feel of the house now that it was finally divested of illness. But when he returned from exercising that morning and looked through the kitchen window to see Siobhan in the backyard, he experienced something unfamiliar.
It felt closer to a home than anything else he could remember.
A home with the lights on and the doors open.
And that only heightened the feeling that he was losing control of the narrative.
“I’m sorry, but I disagree,” said Siobhan, as she flicked through a book from the Duponts’ extensive library. She returned it to its place and came back to stand next to Marcel, who was watching her from the desk. “A romance novel without at least one erotic scene makes no sense. It’s like ... I don’t know ...” She searched the ceiling for the right analogy. “Going to McDonald’s and ordering a salad.”
Marcel laughed. He took off his glasses and set them down beside the laptop. Then he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head.
“Is it really so important for you to know how big Jeremiah’s ... appendage is? Do readers beg for that kind of thing?”
Siobhan sighed.
“It’s not about that. A well-written erotic scene doesn’t have to be a study of anatomy. You’ve never read J. R. Ward, have you? No, of course not; stupid question,” she said. “Intimate encounters between the two protagonists give the story realism.” Marcel looked at her with genuine interest. “I mean, when a man and a woman fall in love, in the beginning ... there’s that passion that ... Well, you know what I mean, right?”
Of course he knew. He wasn’t stupid. The fact that emotional relationships didn’t interest him didn’t mean he couldn’t understand the mechanics of them. But he found Siobhan so delightful when she was embarrassed that he decided to play with her a bit.
He frowned.
“Well, no, I have no idea. Why don’t you explain?”
“Well, you see . . .”
The fun ended the moment Charmaine appeared in the library. The good news was that she was carrying a tray of food.
“I’ve made you a snack,” she announced. “You’ve been in here for ages; you must be hungry.”
“Damn right. Thank god you think of everything, sis.”
“Yes, thanks, Chaz. You’re really kind,” added Siobhan.
“Don’t mention it.” She left the tray on the desk and urged them to dig in. “Come on, eat.”
Siobhan approached and glanced at the tray. There were a couple of fish po’boys smeared with Creole mustard, a basket brimming with fries, and two chilled bottles of Jax beer.
Marcel handed one of the sandwiches to Siobhan and wolfed down the other. A long murmur of pleasure broke out from deep inside him.
“Ah ha!” exclaimed Charmaine. “Looks like someone has been missing Southern food.”
“Believe it or not, we have sandwiches in New York too,” he said.
Siobhan raised her hand to her mouth to hide a laugh as she chewed, and Marcel winked at her.
Charmaine tutted.
“These aren’t sandwiches, my boy. This is a way of life. Okay, what are your plans for this afternoon?”
“Keep working,” answered Marcel. “We’re in the middle of something important, and we aren’t going to leave it half-finished because I hate leaving things ...” He stretched out and grabbed a fry from the basket at the same time as Siobhan. Their fingers grazed against each other for a second, and the sensation ran through him like a drug. He swiftly pulled away. “... half-finished.”
“But overthinking kills creativity,” said Charmaine.
“Oh yeah? Says who? The Kardashian sisters?”
His sister threw him one of her formidable glares.
“Cut the crap. Why don’t you move your ass for once and take our guest out to see the city? You’re a terrible host, you know that? You should be ashamed.”
Marcel sighed, frustrated.
The first thing that hit them when they got out of the car was a strong stench of rot, a reek that rose from the ground itself, having seeped into the stonework and asphalt long ago. Siobhan grimaced, which made him laugh.
“Welcome to New Orleans, princess.”
They started the tour on Canal Street, the city’s main artery. Marcel explained that Mardi Gras took place here, and that it was not just a party, but a symbol of the city’s identity.
“Of course, if we expended the same energy solving this place’s endemic problems as we do tossing strings of beads in the air, we might be better off,” he said.
They turned onto Royal Street, with its antique shops, galleries, and fern-filled wrought-iron balconies, and plunged into the popular French Quarter. The nauseous stench soon became overpowering. Siobhan looked as though she wanted to absorb every last detail, her fascination evident on her adorable face. Although he normally looked down on Bourbon Street and its excessive hedonism, he agreed to show her the city’s claim to fame—the street with the most bars, restaurants, sex shops, strip clubs, and street musicians per square yard in the United States—just to satisfy her curiosity. He had to admit, he would have done anything she asked. The smell of beer mixed with the tang of sweat, the temperature seemed to be rising, and music burst out deafeningly from the bowels of every venue. People were drinking from plastic cups, laughing, smoking, singing, celebrating bachelor parties, birthdays, and all kinds of events. Black, white, Creole, or Asian, all had surrendered to the joie de vivre of the Big Easy. Many wore beaded necklaces, hats adorned with feathers, and costumes.
Then, someone pushed against them by accident and doused them in beer.
“Assholes!”
Marcel remembered why he avoided Bourbon Street at all costs.
“Can we get out of here? There are a lot of weirdos around here, and I’m going to end up punching someone. Don’t laugh, I’m deadly serious.”
“I’m not laughing,” she replied with feigned sincerity, unable to hide a giggle.
She was so lovely when she laughed like that.
“I must admit, New Orleans gets under your skin in no time. It could certainly inspire a novel or two,” remarked Siobhan, strolling past a group playing bluegrass next to the fountain.
“Is the Tourist Office paying you?” Marcel raised an eyebrow. “You can say that because you don’t live here and you don’t see how it’s coming apart at the seams day after day. I mean, it has the highest rates of both violent crime and municipal licenses for public festivities. Quite the paradox, right?”
“Well, all cities are complicated. But there’s something about the faded beauty of this place that makes it different from any other.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, the romance of decay. If I could give you a ‘like’ right now, I would for sure.”
She laughed unapologetically and bumped her shoulder against his arm in a gesture that seemed entirely natural. Marcel hadn’t felt so at ease with a woman in his entire life.
They strolled on to Café du Monde. Going to New Orleans and not having a café au lait with beignets on the banks of the Mississippi would be sacrilege. It was always full, no matter what time of day. Inside, the air-conditioning was going with the strength of an industrial refrigerator. They sat at a table next to the window, where they could watch the river, Steamboat Natchez sitting at the pier, with its dance band playing on the deck for the tourists, and the sky marbled with the color of burst plums. A very elderly waitress, with a smile that unashamedly revealed her precious few teeth, served them the house specialty: freshly made pastries with a generous dousing of powdered sugar and coffee that was well worth the trip.
Marcel sipped his with gusto, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face.
“Finally, a proper café au lait. Not sixteen ounces of boiling milk with a finger of dirty water in a depressing disposable cup.”
“So you’ve made your peace with your city, huh?” Siobhan broke off a piece of beignet and chewed it. “Mmmm ... God, this is good. You have to try it.”
“As if I don’t know what beignets taste like. Anyway, I’ve told you a hundred times that sweets—”
Siobhan let out a great sigh. Without a word, she slotted the piece of pastry into his mouth, and, against all odds, Marcel ate it up willingly. This woman was throwing him right off track.
“See? It’s not so bad,” she said, as she wiped the powdered sugar from his stubble with her fingers. “There is a person in there and—spoiler alert!—he’s not as bitter as he seems.”
He watched her with a mix of bewilderment and delight. He was afraid her charms would weaken him even further, so he hid behind his shield of sarcasm as he recomposed himself.
“Why are you suddenly seeing me in such a positive light? Have you hit your head on something, princess?”
“Chaz told me some things this morning.”
The air got trapped in his windpipe for a few seconds.
“Wow. My sister doesn’t waste time. What exactly did she tell you?”
“That Katrina destroyed your house and the carpenter’s shop but that you helped them get back on their feet. And also”—Siobhan paused and bit her lip—“that you’re a wounded bird.”
A torrent of fear rushed through him. He lowered his gaze and focused on his coffee cup.
Don’t ask, please. Not here. Not now.
“I want to ask you something, Marcel. I’d like to see where you grew up. Would you take me to the Ninth Ward?”
Marcel looked at her, perplexed.
“It’s really depressing. The storm destroyed it, and it hasn’t improved much since then. There’s nothing to see there except misery and poverty. Stick with the pretty face of New Orleans. Snap some photos for Instagram.”
“I don’t want photos. To hell with Instagram and to hell with Mark Zuckerberg. The only thing I want is”—she stretched her hand over the table as though searching for physical contact that wasn’t forthcoming—“to know who you are.”
“You know who I am, Siobhan.”
“Only partly. There are still lots of pieces of the puzzle that haven’t fallen into place.”
A solitary lock of hair fell over her face, and Marcel was tempted to tuck it behind her ear. Siobhan had said the protagonists of romance novels did that all the time. She had even wanted Jeremiah to do it in a scene in Two Ways , but Marcel vetoed it because he found it ridiculous. “Explain why on earth he has to put Felicity’s hair behind her ear? Can’t she do it herself?” he remembered saying. “Because it’s tender, Marcel. And there’s nothing more pure and true than a tender gesture,” she had argued.
She was right. He knew that now.
Except that he was not the hero of a romance novel.
So he restrained himself.
“I asked you to stop trying to understand me,” he muttered.
“If that’s the case, then why have you brought me to New Orleans?”
It wasn’t a reproach. There was something else in the question, something he couldn’t answer.
He found it difficult to meet that gaze that was able to plunge to the very depths of his soul. He lowered his eyes to Siobhan’s hand, which was still on the table, and slid his own toward it until their fingertips touched.
“All right. I’ll take you to the Ninth Ward tomorrow.”